


Just Goes to Show

by xsnarksthespot



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Carnival, Eye Trauma, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Minor Violence, Public Sex, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-16
Updated: 2015-06-16
Packaged: 2018-04-04 15:31:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4143045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xsnarksthespot/pseuds/xsnarksthespot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Twenty year old Dorian Pavus is hiding from his miserable life at a carnival in Ferelden. He hates everything about it. Except that he doesn't.  In fact, he hates it a little less every day, thanks to The Iron Bull, his ridiculous jack-of-all-trades coworker. All the crazy sex they end up having doesn't hurt, either.</p>
<p>
  <i>Dorian doesn’t want to agree. Agreeing with the Bull makes him insufferably smug and then he smiles that smug smile and his <i>stupid smug face</i> makes Dorian’s stomach twist up into knots. And of course, there’s the lazy rambling, which he certainly didn’t ask for, but whenever the midway gets slow, he receives a visit from his sweaty lummox of a coworker. If he responds, he’ll only encourage the behavior. Irritatingly, he has to remind himself that’s a bad thing.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Goes to Show

**Author's Note:**

> Originally inspired by the prompt "Shitty teen summer job AU. Skyhold is a run-down amusement park, Dorian and Bull are ride operators/carnival game operators/mascots/gift shop workers/clean-up crew/something amusement parks hire teens to do. They’re so bored they start hooking up all over the park." But I changed a few things and then it totally got away from me. 
> 
> I should have broken this up into chapters, but I can't for the life of me settle on where to put the breaks, so here's nearly 10k worth of slightly cracky fluff and a dash of angst.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been this bored. In my life. I mean, that’s counting the summer I spent in the Hissing Wastes and the worst thing we ran into was this old Gurn with the saddest little horn I’ve ever seen. Poor pathetic beast...”

Dorian doesn’t want to agree. Agreeing with the Bull makes him insufferably smug and then he smiles that smug smile and his _stupid smug face_ makes Dorian’s stomach twist up into knots. And of course, there’s the lazy rambling, which he certainly didn’t ask for, but whenever the midway gets slow, he receives a visit from his sweaty lummox of a coworker. If he responds, he’ll only encourage the behavior. Irritatingly, he has to remind himself that’s a bad thing.

He doesn’t _want_ to agree, but he’s ten seconds away from stabbing himself in the eye, just to have something to do.

“I assure you, I am far more bored than you are. You, at least, have the benefit _my_ engaging company.”

Bull leans into the booth with an off-kilter grin. “Ooh. Am I boring you, ‘vint?”

Dorian makes a noncommittal noise at that and pretends he’s still doing inventory on the small prizes jammed into drawers under the counter. _The Iron Bull_ , as he introduces himself to anyone who will listen, doesn’t seem offended in the slightest. He rolls his ridiculous shoulders.

“I got a few ideas for entertaining us both, you know.”

Feeling an unacceptable blush color his face, Dorian huffs and rolls his eyes. He tries to slam a drawer shut, but of course it ends up crooked, like a stupid metaphor for his life. It takes three attempts to get the cursed thing closed right, so he’s flustered by the time he sputters out a response.

“Don’t you have _some_ work to do? _Somewhere_? That isn’t _here_?”

There’s that laugh that drives Dorian insane. Bull laughs like the world is his for the taking. Like he really does love life, even the shitty parts. Like he doesn’t have a cynical bone in his body. It fills Dorian with envy. And just a little bit of traitorous warmth.

“Not really,” Bull says, once his mirth has died down to a gleam in his eyes. “There’s a loose board in the Haunted House maintenance tunnel. Gonna have to nail it good, at some point.” He leans forward and drops his voice to a sultry whisper. “You wanna watch?”

Dorian snorts a laugh before he can stop himself. Moving away would be the smart thing to do right now. Put a little bit of space between him and that smirking face. Those wide, dangerous horns. 

Instead, his mouth twists at one corner, fighting itself. “Must you turn everything into innuendo?”

“He says as he smiles for the first time all day.”

“I beg your pardon. It is _not_ the first time.”

“Name one time you smiled and it wasn’t forced. One.”

“I...there was…” Dorian could lie. Honestly, he tries. If only to stop Bull from watching him like he’s the most interesting person in the world. But frustration wins out and he sputters wordlessly, shoving Bull’s shoulder. “Just because you didn’t see it, doesn’t mean it didn’t happen!”

Bull rolls with the shove, smile widening just a little. He watches Dorian for a second longer, then straightens up off the counter. 

“Come on. You haven’t had anyone at your booth in an hour, at least. I’ll show you how to do some sweaty _hard_ labor--” The ‘ugh’ trapped in Dorian’s throat must paint itself across his face, because Bull barks a laugh and holds his hands up defensively. “--Last one for the rest of the day, I promise. Good clean conversation from here until closing.”

Dorian narrows his eyes into a suspicious squint. He shouldn’t leave his post. But Maker help him, he _would_ prefer watching Bull manhandle his wood - oh, good, now he’s got Dorian doing it - than stand here all by himself for another few hours.

“...The rest of the day?”

Maybe Bull’s a bit of mindreader and he knows he’s already won. Maybe Dorian is just painfully easy to read, distrustful question be damned. Whatever the case, Bull smiles, slow and affectionate.

“You have my word, Dorian.”

 

* * *

 

Dorian hates his job. 

Not in, say, the same way he hates flip-flops. And certainly not in the way he _despises_ snow. 

No, it’s more in the way he hates Ferelden beer, unfortunately.

There _are_ plenty of reasons to loathe South Thedas Midway and all it represents. He’s surrounded daily by a legendary stench, for one. Some of the smells are pleasant on their own, but the incessant mish-mash clings to his clothes at best, and makes him worry he’ll revisit his lunch at worst. Then, there’s the cacophony of bells and whistles and shouts and screams. He’s had more headaches in the last two months than the rest of his life combined. But really, he _should_ hate his job for the people alone. Hundreds of plebeians, in some of the worst clothes he’s ever seen, shouting demands at him and handing him money that is so suspiciously filthy, he has to keep an industrial-sized bottle of hand sanitizer under the counter.

It’s madness, really. A _nightmare_.

And yet, he keeps coming back. 

Admittedly, part of the reason is because even getting nachos dumped on him every other day is better than the alternative. The school in Minrathous is just like all the rest. If he spends another second there, he’ll break frozen pieces off the Lucanus boy, and his gossiping entourage, right in the middle of dinner. He’ll show them all that he is stronger, smarter, and more talented than the five of them combined. And it won’t make a damn bit of difference how behind he is in his official training or who he finds attractive.

There are other options to going back to Minrathous, of course. He could return home and face his father’s wrath after evading his trackers for two months. He rather likes breathing fresh air, though, so that one’s out. 

He could run off to a house of ill repute and sleep his way through the male catalogue. That idea has merit, but frankly, he can’t afford it. And as temporarily thrilling as charging his bill to House Pavus would be, he’d really like to live to see his twenty-first birthday.

No, he won’t leave yet. For all of those perfectly sane and valid reasons, and nothing more. 

Not because he secretly enjoys the sound of people enjoying themselves, or because he’s eaten more funnel cake than a grown man should ever admit to enjoying. Certainly not because he feels accepted here, or because he sleeps better amongst a crowded row of bunks than he has since he was a child.

And _most definitely_ not because of the _Qunari_ squatting a foot away.

It’s the tail end of a summer’s day - maybe the last surprise scorcher they’ll see - and the Haunted House feels as if it has held the day’s heat close to its breast for safekeeping. It should be stifling, and it is, but not because of the heat. The heat is glorious. Dorian leans back against the wooden wall behind him. His chin is lifted just so, one arm thrown over his propped up knee, and his fingers tap idly against the fabric of his trousers. He knows he looks good. Relaxed and handsome. Casual perfection.

The sad part is, it’s not casual at all. He’s had to practice this look. And he’s using it on Bull, of all people. Bull, who if the gossips are correct, has slept with half the staff and a good chunk of the customers. Dorian isn’t sure how much he believes of that, mostly because he hates gossip on principle. But here, in his own head, he can admit he wouldn’t be shocked. It’s not as if Bull isn’t appealing. He’s forward and friendly. Significantly smarter than he lets on, too. He’s large even for a Qunari, with the kind of muscles that are as functional as they are pleasing to the eye. Yes, he has scars, but they suit him. If Dorian thinks Bull should shave off the haphazard scruff he’s sporting, three seconds later he’s wondering what the scratch of it would feel like against his thighs. 

Fasta vass. His father would drop dead instantly if he knew half of what Dorian has thought about a Qunari. A Tal-Vashoth, no less. Or at least, that’s what Dorian assumes. It hardly seems likely that the Antaam would station a perfectly fit soldier at a rundown carnival in the ass end of Thedas, and he’s mostly sure Bull wasn’t born outside of the Qun. 

But it’s not like Dorian has asked either. The openly suspicious days are behind them, but their trust is a seedling in need of more water and sun.

“You have got to be the loudest thinker I’ve ever met,” Bull rumbles cheerfully. The hammer’s been set aside, fresh boards replacing a three foot stretch of floor instead of just the one wonky plank. The control panel for the house’s slow-moving train and the glitchy trigger on a jump scare have also received attention. Despite all his talk, Bull insists on doing a job properly.

He steps over in front of Dorian and stares down at him with a tilt of his horns. “Care to share with the class or should I start making guesses?”

Dorian scrunches up his face. “Is there a third option?”

“Well, yeah. But I promised I’d be good.”

Shaking his head, Dorian sighs out a frustrated laugh. “I suppose I set myself up for that one.”

“Little bit, yeah.” 

Bull plops down onto the floor next to Dorian, stretching his legs out in front of him. Their height difference is nearly enough to keep Dorian from getting a face full of horn, but Bull is careful to sit just right, anyway. Sweat beads at his collarbone, escapes to trickle down the rounded curve of one pectoral. 

It’s not mesmerizing. It’s _not_.

It’s on the tip of Dorian’s tongue to ask why the man never wears a damn shirt, anyway, but there’s a slam from the other side of the wall and a pair of screams that make Dorian jump. By the time the chik-chik-chik of the train passes by their hiding spot, the words that come out of his mouth are entirely different.

“Why are you here?”

The Bull’s eyebrows creep upwards, but his sideways glance bears no trace of mocking. “Philosophically speaking or more literally?”

Dorian smirks. He can’t help it. “You have a philosophical answer?”

“Eh. I could half-ass one if you got bossy about it.”

“Tempting,” Dorian murmurs, unconsciously toying with his hard-earned mustache. “But no, I meant, why are you working a carnival in Ferelden?”

He’d have to be blind or significantly less brilliant to miss the way Bull’s eyes watch his fingers, then graze over his mouth like a caress. With his breath catching in his throat, he almost _does_ miss the way Bull shifts his gaze to lock eyes with him.

“Work.”

“Ugh. I should’ve expected you’d be difficult.”

“I’m not being difficult. That’s the answer,” Bull shrugs.

Dorian glares. “It’s a vague non-answer and you know it.”

“Why are _you_ working a carnival in Ferelden?”

Well. The hypocrisy of getting pissy about Bull’s answer hits Dorian square between the eyes. He watches Bull’s face and mulls over the idea of telling this brute of a man how his father has slowly become his enemy and he thinks this is the only safe haven he’s found in years. 

It’s a long moment of silence. Bull barely blinks, just gives him this patient stare.

Eventually, Dorian smirks and turns away, pressing his shoulder to Bull’s. “You’ve made your point.”

Another few seconds of silence tick by, broken only by a few ghostly howls and a lackluster shout from a rider on the train. Anxiety threatens to bloom in Dorian’s chest, but then Bull nudges him and there’s something strangely calming about his voice.

“Wanna go scare the shit out of someone?”

“Maker, _yes_.” Dorian hasn’t had the chance to practice his amateur skills in necromancy since he got here. Maybe he’ll get a two-for-one and startle Bull. Nothing else seems to tip the man off balance, after all. “Be quick, will you? No time to waste.”

 

* * *

 

Two days later, it’s more obvious that carnival season is winding down. The crowds have thinned. It’s not quiet, but it’s getting there. Soon, South Thedas Midway will pack up and move north to warmer climates. 

Dorian spots Bull finishing repairs on the high striker across the midway from Dorian’s booth. The operator immediately starts hawking for his next victim, bellowing some nonsense about ‘separating the real men from the boys’. 

A few bored glances turn into a tiny crowd, though, once Bull picks up the long-handled mallet and shouts, “Who wants to see me crack that bell?” 

Despite heaving his eyes skyward, Dorian steps out from his booth and meanders over. Bull catches his eye and grins wide.

“You just fixed the stupid thing and you’re already aiming to break it?” Dorian sighs loudly.

“Just trying to give these good people a show, Dorian! Unless you’ve got a better idea, get over here and cheer me on.”

Dorian does move closer. Swaggers, really, His one bare shoulder flexes as he props a hand on his hip. “As a matter of fact, I do have a better idea. Let’s make it a wager.”

Using the mallet as a leaning crutch, Bull leers back at him. “I’m listening.”

“You say you can crack the bell…,” Dorian waves idly towards the strongman test and smiles. “...I say you can’t. But _I_ can.”

“Oh ho ho,” Bull crows. He swings the mallet up onto his shoulder and steps close enough that Dorian can not only see the sweat on his grey skin, but smell it as well. 

Kaffas. He really should be disgusted and _not_ imagining the taste of it on his tongue.

“You think you can show me up?” Bull’s voice is only for Dorian now, and the look the brute traces down over the length of him makes his skin tighten. His reply is more haughty than genuinely confident, but Dorian sells it like a stockpile of the finest lyrium.

“Please. I _know_ I can.”

Bull chuckles. “Alright then. Name your terms.”

Well, shit. Dorian didn’t think this far ahead. He’s rather broke at the moment. He knows he’ll win, of course, but risking his remaining meal money seems like testing fate. Knowing Bull is watching the uncertainty flicker across his face, Dorian musters up a careless shrug.

“One hour. If you win, I have to do what you say for one hour. If I win, you have to do what I say.” Nerves catch up with Dorian and he blurts out an addendum for Bull’s ears only. “Nothing sexual, mind you. I’m not--It’s just a friendly bet.”

Bulls expression shutters closed for a moment - unreadable, and frankly, a little guilt-inducing. But then he smiles.

“One hour.” Turning towards the crowd, Bull lifts the mallet off his shoulder and palms it, all the strength in his torso put on display with casual ease. “There you have it, folks. Vint versus Qunari! Place your bets with the bearded guy over there. The one looking like an annoyed kid who just had his toy taken away.”

Some bets are placed, more than Dorian expected to be sure, and he finally takes a real look around. They’ve pulled in many of the customers left at this time of day.

Pride is an ugly thing. At least Dorian’s is. He can feel it childishly kicking its feet inside his gut. He simply _must_ win. His ego might not survive a loss with this many witnesses. Squaring his shoulders, he steps to the side and starts collecting his magic in his core. Without a staff to focus his energies, he’ll need to be especially intent. Hurting Bull isn’t on the menu. Just making the big lug fail. 

Bull struts up to the high striker. His vitaar markings are a harmless interpretation of the real thing, Dorian knows that, but that doesn’t stop them from flexing across his mighty shoulders like a warning sign. There’s a bit more grandstanding - Bull actually twirls the mallet like it ways nothing at all - then finally, Bull swings up over his head.

Timing being crucial, Dorian waits until the mallet reaches its zenith before weakening Bull with something like a watered down version of Veilstrike. Rift magic isn’t his strong suit, but he can bend the spell to suit him easily enough. And he doesn’t even need to _touch_ the Qunari. 

No doubt Bull is prepared for such an attack, but he still falters. The mallet hits the spring-loaded lever off-center, but the puck still shoots up the tower with force.

Not _enough_ force, it appears. It does ding off the bell, which, Maker forgive him, still impresses Dorian as much as cracking it would have. If Bull is this strong in his mid-twenties, and weakened by magic, he’ll be something truly jaw-dropping in a few years.

Not that Dorian allows himself to think about that. 

The crowd is groaning, most bets already lost. Bull bows his head in mock shame and apologizes to the especially cranky patrons. No one’s brave enough to accuse him of rigging the contest for his employer’s benefit, at least.

“Sad. So very, very sad.”

“Yeah, yeah, ‘vint. Save the mouthing off. Let’s see what you’ve got,” Bull laughs.

Dorian flashes a smug smile and circles around to take the mallet from Bull. It’s only about ten pounds, but it feels more substantial with Bull staring him down. Still, Dorian manages a cockier grin that earns him a laugh. He won’t admit it, but it was worth the effort, even if Bull moves away from him and leans against a nearby booth.

“I hope you like blowing up balloons and repairing dart flights, Bull.” 

Pure magical force courses from Dorian’s hands into the handle as he pitches the mallet up into the air. Unfortunately, he has a split second of idiocy. A flicker of movement snags his attention and he looks at Bull, which is the last thing he should do. What he sees is Bull dragging sharp teeth across his bottom lip and palming himself through his ugly trousers, like the outrageous lech that he is.

It’s the perfect distraction, honestly. Dorian is equal parts stunned and aroused, and he’s riding the crest of a wave of power, well beyond the point of no return. 

It’s probably fortunate that he only smashes a huge divot into the ground next to the lever, instead of exploding the cursed mallet while it’s still in his grip.

Naturally, it doesn’t _feel_ fortunate. Not when the crowd erupts into laughter and a few scattered cries of disappointment. Mortified, Dorian petulantly tosses the mallet aside and stomps passed Bull.

It isn’t until a hand closes around his bicep and tugs him behind the Hall of Mirrors that Dorian realizes he should have gone in the opposite direction of Bull, crowd or no crowd.

“Hey, hold on a sec, Dorian.”

Dorian yanks his arm out of Bull’s grip and glares up at him, embarrassment making his hiss come out shrill. “Have you no shame whatsoever?!”

Undeterred, Bull crowds close. “You used magic!”

“Of course I used _magic_. I could hardly have won otherwise!”

“You used your power, and I used mine, Dorian,” Bull counters. He’s nearer than Dorian realized, and smirking. Dorian’s not sure which is worse. “Frankly, you’d probably have won if you’d gone the route I did. I’d have been shocked stupid. Probably smashed a few of my own toes.”

“I--that’s not-- _uuggh_. You are _insufferable_ ,” Dorian sputters, half-heartedly rapping the back of his knuckles against Bull’s chest.

Smirking wider, Bull props an arm against the wall beside them. “But not boring, huh?”

The whites of Dorian’s eyes show with a particular epic eye roll. His mouth even gapes open in the process.

“Look,” Bull laughs, “how about we call it a draw and we both get an hour?” He’s not exactly looming, at least not intentionally. But Dorian still feels the weight of Bull’s presence all around him, like a fog especially created to scatter his thoughts. 

Irritated with how his body instantly reacts to Bull’s nearness, Dorian shoves at him.

“What makes you think I even _want_ to be around you after that display?” 

For the first time in their two month acquaintance, Dorian sees unease swim across Bull’s features. The Qunari drops his arm to his side and straightens out of his suggestive lean. What a startling change it is, watching The Iron Bull look worried. Apologetic, even. 

It’s awful, really. The kind of awful that makes Dorian genuinely wish he could turn back time.. 

“Dorian. I thought this was...our thing. If you really want me to leave you alone for good, just say the word.” 

Dorian flaps his arms at his sides. “Vishante kaffas! I didn’t _mean_ that, I just--” 

Making a frustrated noise, he starts to turn away. That’s his shtick, right? If the going gets tough, pick a fight or run away. Or both. But Maker, he doesn’t want it to be like that. He wants to be someone who stands tall and worthy. Someone who deserves the happiness and acceptance he so desperately craves.

Why in the hell that makes him swivel back at double speed, grab Bull by one horn, and pull him into a searing kiss is a question for future scholars studying the descent into madness of one Dorian Pavus, Tevinter mage and well-dressed _fool_.

Still, it’s a rewarding fall from grace. Bull grunts this little ‘oof’ of surprise against Dorian’s lips and isn’t that something? Not nearly as something as the rest of what follows, of course, but still. All at once, Dorian is enclosed in hard-packed body heat. He makes his own _oof_ when Bull rams him against the wall, but it dissolves into an embarrassingly enthusiastic moan. At least the noise is muffled against the mouth branding his own, thank the Maker. 

He probably shouldn’t be thinking about the Maker. Not when teeth and tongue and the cradle of Bull’s huge hands against his face are all leaving him dizzy with lust. He can’t help a quiet prayer that no one will decide to peek around the back side of the Hall of Mirrors right now, though. Somehow, some way, the news would travel all the way to Tevinter, he’s sure of it. He’s not nearly lucky enough to avoid complete and utter social destruction when he’s blindly groping at the Qunari kissing him senseless.

Bull breaks the kiss with a groaning laugh.

“Knew you’d be like this. All fire and lightning.” 

As if his voice wasn’t thrilling enough under normal circumstances, Bull sounds deliciously rough. He pins Dorian’s hands behind his own back and pulls until the mage bares the long slope of his neck. “A smoking hot _asaaranda_ in tight-fitting pants.”

Dorian opens his mouth to complain about calling him names he doesn’t understand, but Bull bites down around the throbbing pulse in his throat, so what comes out is more of a mewl than a reprimand. 

“Bull… _please_.”

“Please what?” Bull sucks the words into his skin. “What do you need?”

“I--” Straining against the hold on his wrists, Dorian mouths high on Bull’s cheek, gasps against the base of one horn. What does he need? What kind of question is that?! “I don’t know, I don’t-- _kaffas_ , don’t ask stupid questions right now. Just touch me, you oaf.”

Good grief, they’re in public! Their only protection is the looming building beside them and long shadows cast by the setting sun, and still he’s acting like some touch-starved teenager. To be fair, it’s not the first time he’s gotten carried away. It’s just the first to leave him desperately careless under the drag of strong hands down his body. 

“Look at you,” Bull growls, looming over him. “So needy. When was the last time someone took good care of you?”

Dorian’s hands are free again, so he scrapes them up over the thick cords of Bull’s neck. “Oh, do get _on with it_ ,” he snaps.

“Nuh uh, no way. Gonna take my time. Watch all that pretty arrogance turn messy with want.”

“Not here you’re not!”

Bull kisses a rumbling laugh into Dorian’s mouth. “Just a preview, then.”

What little self-restraint Dorian has left slips away as the kiss turns tender. It’s a direct counterpoint to how Bull yanks at the buckles and belts of Dorian’s trousers, opens them just enough to stuff his hand inside and wrap a hot palm around Dorian’s cock. The keening moan that rips out of his mouth startles him. Surely someone heard that. Surely he should _care_. In his defensive, it’s difficult to muster up any panic when Bull is grinding up against him with every stroke. Warm, rough skin, the press and scrape of fabric, Bull’s mouth slowly, insistently, mapping his own - the whirlwind of sensations threatens to leave Dorian a quivering mess on the ground.

He has to wonder, if someone _did_ turn the corner right this moment, would he have the willpower to stop thrusting into Bull’s grip? Could he pull away from the hard press of Bull’s thumb against the head of his cock? Or would he just screw his eyes tightly shut and use all of his powers of denial to pretend they hadn’t been discovered?

Luckily, he never finds out. 

Bull lifts his head and reaches up with his free hand to grab Dorian by the jaw. Dorian pants and whines, digging his fingers into Bull’s neck. He doesn’t even try to fight the pressure on his chin, just meets Bull’s eyes and falls apart under that blistering stare.

“That’s it,” Bull murmurs, ducking his head to smother Dorian’s explosive gasp with a kiss. “Beautiful. And just a little messy. Perfect.”

More than a little messy, Dorian thinks, judging by the sticky slick slide of Bull’s hand withdrawing. But his brain is just one big buzzing _fuckyes_ at the moment, so he drops his forehead to Bull’s throat and doesn’t say a word. Bull nuzzles into his hair.

“You’re already ruined me. Have a heart and spare my hair, at the very least,” Dorian whispers weakly.

Bull chuckles, kisses the crown of his head, and puts order to the chaos of their appearance as best as he can. How ridiculous is it that a Qunari shows more care after pleasuring _him_ than anyone has shown him after the assorted debauchery he’s committed on their behalf?

Very. So very ridic--

“Stop thinking,” Bull orders. It’s a quiet demand, but firm all the same. He takes Dorian’s hand, pulling it away from where he’s unconsciously tucked his fingers behind Bull’s massive belt buckle, and he leads the mage out of the shadows. 

“Let’s find a washroom. And then dinner. I’m starving.”

 

* * *

 

Dorian doesn’t stop thinking. It’s not in his nature. 

But he does push Bull into a bathroom stall and lock the door before he gets on his knees.

And for a few long minutes - while he’s learning the heft and taste of Bull’s cock in his mouth and listening to the rumble of praise over his head - he even forgets how dirty the floor is.

 

* * *

 

The next month is a bit of an orgasmic blur. There’s a lot of nudity and swearing and inventiveness. 

Sometimes, they wait until the midway shuts down, but not as often as they should. The maintenance shaft in the Haunted House gets revisited, this time with blankets and a bottle of West Hill Brandy. It’s the first time Bull works him open and fucks him into the floor. Everyone pretends the moaning and thumping they hear coming from behind the walls is just an uncomfortable part of the ride. 

Dorian learns that the Tunnel of Love is really not built for his broad-shouldered lover, but it _is_ dark and secluded enough to hide him rocking in Bull’s lap. Bull proudly wears teeth marks on his unharnessed shoulder for two days after that one. The finger-shaped bruises on Dorian’s hips take a little longer to fade.

Oh, and there’s the Gravitron incident. Which they are never to speak of, ever. Sex in Fade-spun rides is officially banned after that. Even Bull looks a little green whenever he hurries past that sparkling monstrosity.

Dorian will never admit it, but he very much enjoys their chaste ride on the ferris wheel. Bull throws an arm around him and Dorian shifts to rest the back of his head against Bull’s shoulder. The ride gets “stuck” and they talk for a long time. They still give each other grief, but it’s lazy and affectionate. Up high, with the sun kissing the horizon, it feels like nothing bad can touch them. The future, his father, Bull’s guarded past. They’re all impotent in the face of a pink and blue sky and the sweet stroke of Bull’s fingers in his hair.

 

* * *

 

It’s not _true_ , of course. Just sentimental crap. The season is wrapping up and then, that’s it. It’s over. Every inch of Dorian knows this to be true and, by the last few days, he’s doing a fairly accurate impression of a rage demon. Much better looking, naturally, but a rage demon. 

When Dorian makes a tiny blonde child cry, Bull throws him over a shoulder and puts him in a corner where he can stew in his regret.

Later, Dorian nearly loses his last few days pay over a fucking corndog, of all things.

But the turning point is when they have a rather epic fight in front of the Kamikaze.

Well, no, that is to say, _Dorian_ has a rather epic fight in front of the Kamikaze. He shouts over the roar of the ride and the screams that whiz by every time the pendulum passes. Bull just stands there, with a puzzled frown and his bulky arms crossed over his chest. Dorian lists all of Bull’s faults - in impressive alphabetic order, no less - and Bull still just squints down at him, like he’s a child throwing a tantrum and Bull only needs to wait it out.

He’s infuriatingly right. 

The midway shuts down early the last night, ready to be packed up and moved in the morning. After the sun sets, Dorian climbs gingerly into Bull’s bedroll out behind the sleeping quarters. The bunks aren’t big enough for a Qunari, but neither is the sleeping bag, really. They’re not so much inside it as on top. Bull makes room without a complaint, though. He tucks Dorian snug against his side and kisses his temple before saying a word.

“Feeling better?” Bull asks.

“No.”

“Do you want to tell me what that was all about or do you want me to guess?”

It reminds Dorian of the conversation in the Haunted House and how he predictably clammed up. But he’s different now, and he knows it. It’s all Bull’s fault that he wants to open up. The heavy stroke of a hand down his back is as addictive as everything else about the man.

“I have to go home,” Dorian admits. “There are...expectations, and my father probably thinks I’m-- _vishante kaffas_ , Bull. I’m sorry. About what I said.”

“Why? Most of it was true.” 

“No,” Dorian grimaces. “You deserve better than that.”

Humming a thoughtful noise, Bull pulls Dorian closer. “So do you, you know. Do you _want_ to go home?”

Dorian sighs. “It doesn’t matter what I want.”

“Hey. Watch it. You’re sounding more Qunari than I do. Pretty sure you’ve got a choice, kadan.”

Dorian rolls his cheek up Bull’s chest and narrows his eyes. For once, Bull looks surprised himself. 

“You better not have just called me something unflattering.”

“Hm. As opposed to insufferable lummox?” Bull smirks.

“Yes, well, that’s...a fair point.”

Dorian’s view of the sky disappears as Bull rolls over on top of him, all bright teeth in the darkness. If it weren’t for him propping his torso up with his hands on the ground, Bull would be crushing him. Not his least favorite way to go out, all things told. But he still glares affectionately up at the brute, anyway.

“Make you a deal,” Bull murmurs. “I’ll tell you what kadan means if you tell me what you _want_ to happen tomorrow.”

There’s something unfair about the way Bull can cut right through the crap. Twenty years old and Dorian feels like he’s always drowning in bullshit. Well, he was, anyway. Not here. Not with a blanket of Qunari and understanding eyes looking right into the soul of him.

“I…” Dorian toys with the strap on Bull’s harness. With a million secret desires racing through his head, he’s almost surprised at how easy it is to pick out the leader. “I want you to throw me into one of the trucks headed for Orlais. I want you tell me I can’t leave. That House Pavus doesn’t need me for a few more months, but the carnival does.”

Bull cocks one eyebrow.

“You _asked_ ,” Dorian whispers a bit petulantly.

“Yeah, but...the carnival?”

“...What?”

“Can’t I tell you that I need you?”

“You--” Dorian drops a trembling hand over his face. He would really prefer not to be _mocked_. “I was aiming for realistic, Bull.”

Abruptly, Bull rolls onto his back and takes Dorian with him. Rocks have to be digging into his skin, but he just hooks his legs over the back of Dorian’s knees and traps his face between his hands. Venhedis. Well, at least things are edging closer to what Dorian had in mind when he came out here. Apologize, yes. But less talking about their feelings and more getting fucked to within an inch of his life, thank you. 

He should’ve known it was never going to be that easy to say goodbye to The Iron Bull.

“I’d miss you,” Bull says. Plain and simple. Like it’s _easy_. His voice dips into warm and husky, smirking crinkles at the corners of his eyes. “That realistic enough for you?”

Dorian closes his eyes and melts out of Bull’s grip to press face-first into his throat. He could fight this. He probably _should_ fight this. It’s only bound to get harder to let go. But common sense has never been one of his virtues. And Bull’s pulse against his skin soothes him in the most preposterous way.

“You’d miss druffalo jerky if you had to go a week without it.”

“Mm, yeah. But I’d miss you more than dried meat. Promise.” Bull wraps his arms around Dorian’s shoulders and smirks against his temple. “...Maybe not as much as deep-fried ice cream, but I mean, come on.” 

Dorian snorts. Vindication comes in the form of pinching Bull low on his belly, where all his muscle is just a little bit soft. The mountainous man beneath him _wriggles_.

“Hey!”

Laughing easier now, Dorian curls his arms around Bull’s middle, tucks his fingers underneath. “If you’re quite done thinking with your stomach, you promised me a Qunlat lesson.”

Bull goes quiet, but his hand digs into Dorian’s hair and massages his scalp. Which really shouldn’t liquify Dorian’s insides into hot jelly.

“You sure you want to know? You’re gonna get weird about it.”

“Excuse you. I do not _get weird_ ,” Dorian scoffs.

“I told you I’d miss you and you started talking about jerky.”

Dorian turns his face towards the sky and sighs, long and loud. “Because you are ridiculous! You find something to love about even the most asinine things!”

“Hey, if I love something, it can’t be that bad.” 

Curse him to the Fade. Dorian knows when he’s being laughed at, but he can still barely keep a straight face as he sits up and waves an imperious hand over Bull’s legs.

“Those trousers should be taken apart, stitch by stitch, buried in the deepest, darkest hole, and never spoken of again.”

Bull opens his grinning mouth.

“Don’t you dare say they’re comfortable, Bull. I swear, I will set them on fire.”

“Yeesh. While I’m still in ‘em?”

Dorian crawls over the top of him on his hands and knees. The sight turns Bull’s laughing eyes dark with hunger and that’s enough to repair Dorian’s dented pride. He lowers himself to press a smug kiss to Bull’s mouth. 

“No. I came out here with at least _half_ a plan and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let you irritate me out of it.”

Bull laughs. Broad hands sweep up Dorian’s back. One crisscrosses his shoulders, the other cradles the back of his neck. Dorian wants to get back to the point, before they get lost in each other, but it’s too late. Bull’s already stretching up to meet him.

He forgets the point altogether as they tumble off the bedroll into the grass. What might have been a drawn-out farewell under the stars instead turns frenzied. There’s elbowing involved, and sticks poking him in the ass, and stinging kisses that leave Dorian’s lips tingling. Somehow he ends up on his stomach with his arms pinned to the ground above his head. His trousers are shoved down his thighs and the rest of his clothes are Maker knows where. Every biting kiss down his back brings sharp gasps from his lips. He’s not even embarrassed by how he scrabbles to get his knees up under himself and his ass in the air. 

“Fuck. Where’s that artist guy when we need him?” Bull says in awe.

“You mean the _cartoonist_? As if I’d let him draw me like this. I’d end up with a drooling mouth and an ass the size of the Anderf--uuuck.”

Bull stops biting a mark into the ass in question and snickers. “The Anderfuck. Nice.”

“Oh, shut up,” Dorian laughs. Now that Bull is busy elsewhere, Dorian’s arms are free, but all he does is claw at the grass. That and use his biceps as a headrest, once Bull leans over him and kisses a path across his shoulders, up the curve of his neck.

Normally, this is where he would insist Bull move things along, the threat of discovery nipping at their heels. And it’s not as if a patch of grass behind the bunkhouse is any more private than the ground inside his booth. But it’s so quiet and dark, and Bull hums praise into his aching skin. 

He’s not thinking about anyone catching them when Bull uncorks the vial of oil he’s taken to carrying. He hardly remembers where they are at all once Bull feels he’s been prepped enough with skillful fingers.

_Thoughts_ are a thing of the past entirely once Bull sinks into him. Coherent thoughts, anyway. There are quite a few blissed out fragments, particularly when Bull growls his name and pulls him up, hugs him to that barrel chest. The position is just the right amount of uncomfortable. Dorian’s knees only kiss the ground, the tops of his feet pressing against the backs of Bull’s knees.

But Bull takes care of him. He holds him there and fucks him slow and steady. Dorian feels stretched to his limit in every sense already, but he reaches up and back to coil his fingers around Bull’s horns, anyway.

“ _Andraste’s great flaming ass_ ,” Dorian gasps, biting out words between thrusts. “Don’t. Ever. Stop.”

Bull chuckles hot and breathless against his ear. “Even I need to sleep some time, Bossy.”

Groaning at the injustice, Dorian turns his head for a kiss. It’s nearly impossible at this angle, and he whines as a result.

“Put me on my back, Bull. Let me kiss you properly.” 

They must not be at the _make him beg for it_ stage yet, since Bull seems only too happy to flip Dorian over onto the bedroll and slot between his thighs. He drops down to capture Dorian’s mouth in a growling kiss and Dorian throws himself into it, fully and completely abandoning any pretext that he cares if they’re seen. Maker, the picture they must make? He might even enjoy an audience at this point.

Bull pants something broken against his mouth, in Qunlat. Dorian doesn’t understand the words, but he feels the sentiment down into his toes. He answers in Tevene.

“ _I’d miss you, too. I would, Bull. Too much._ ”

Bull goes rigid above him, then molds his body as close as he can get it, kissing Dorian with a renewed tenderness that stutters his heart. It’s the first time Bull’s shown an obvious reaction to something Dorian’s said in his native language and the realization that Bull might actually _speak_ Tevene punches through his chest. All the suspicious and insulting things he said in the first few weeks, when nerves and old hatreds had control of the wheel. All the honeyed nonsense he’s babbled in the last month, naked _and_ clothed. Kaffas, if Bull has comprehended every word…

The thrusts of Bull’s hips pick up, in speed and accuracy. He’s aiming to drive Dorian right out of his mind.

It works, of course. It always works.

Bull links their hands together on the ground, framing Dorian’s face, and sucks a mark under his jaw. Between the hard snap of his hips and the drag of his belly, Bull doesn’t need to do much more than tighten his grip.

But he’s a bit of a show-off. In this and everything else.

Bull grazes his teeth along Dorian’s jaw, tracks a path of heat up to his ear, and growls, “Make some noise. Make them hear you. I want this whole damned troupe to know how fucking hot you sound when you come.”

Dorian’s eyes roll back into his head, but he manages to comply. Quiet whimpers bloom into full-blown moans and loud encouragement. As the last of a few driving thrusts send heat violently spiraling out of him, Dorian shouts his bliss for the whole damn valley to hear.

Bull laughs, but it’s not the laugh that usually gets him a belligerent glare. It’s the _joyful_ one. And that one can be forgiven, since it leaves Dorian dizzy long after his orgasm has subsided.

It probably wouldn’t do for Bull to know that, though.

“Oh, do stop _chortling_ ,” Dorian says. Or croaks, really. It’s nearly the same thing. 

Unlatching their hands, he pulls Bull’s horns down and tightens his legs around his waist. Bull’s laugh turns into a groan as the snug heat around his cock tightens, too. Once Bull starts fucking into him again, in short, firm strokes, Dorian sighs out quiet and pleased.

It’s nearly too much. His body feels like embers being stirred, but he’s not anywhere near ready to be dragged up over and over again. He focuses, instead, on encircling Bull with his arms and legs, and sparks tiny pulses of lightning down that broad, flexing back. He knows how much Bull likes that. But then, Bull likes a lot of things. 

It probably shouldn’t mean so much to Dorian that he’s on that list. Dare he think it - maybe even near the top of that list.

Before he can tumble into thoughts of ‘it won’t last’ and ‘it’s only because this _thing_ is so new’, Dorian pulls a familiar string of wrecked grunts out of Bull and feels him rest their foreheads together for the last two strokes. This close, he gets to see the Bull’s eyes flutter shut, the crescendo of pleasure that crashes over his face. He moans right along with him, because he can’t _not_.

It’s later, when he’s tucked against Bull’s side and valiantly ignoring the mess they’re going to wake up to, that Dorian lets himself fear what comes tomorrow.

Bull really must be psychic, because he shifts to kiss Dorian’s forehead and murmurs warm against his skin.

“It means where the heart lies.”

Dorian closes his eyes and breathes a shiver of air against Bull’s throat. It surprises him that the Qunari even have such a word. But he can’t bear to blemish the moment with an ignorant remark to that effect, so he just curls an arm and a leg over Bull, and buries his face in the man’s neck. He hopes it’s enough. Because all the words in his head are too revealing. Too terrifying. And his bravery only goes so far.

Bull pulls the bedroll over them as far as it will go and quietly says goodnight.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Dorian wakes before the sun cracks the horizon and he drags Bull to get cleaned up and fed. He barely sees him after that. In passing, yes, as they help break down the midway and load everything onto trucks, but no more than a few words get passed between them. 

It doesn’t help Dorian’s nerves one bit. And it certainly doesn’t help his aching body. Venhedis but that man leaves a mark. 

Dorian works and the morning passes. He repeatedly tries to gauge the time despite the clouds, calculates what’s left to do, and then grimaces to himself. The grimacing escalates into full fledged muttering by the time everything’s done.

That’s it then. There’s nothing left to distract him from his own cruel brain. The brain telling him that he is just as foolish now as he ever was. No doubt Bull has reconsidered his ridiculous word and everything else with it. If only that belief could unstick the hope in Dorian’s chest and drive him from the valley. 

Between the mass of trucks and meandering workers, Dorian spins erratically in a circle instead. Like a compass searching for true north.

“Hey, stranger. You look lost.”

Dorian turns so fast he nearly topples over. The hands that snap out to steady him are filthy, much like the rest of Bull, but his smile is stupidly bright. Dorian swats Bull’s hands away with a wrinkle of his nose.

“ _Festis bei umo canavarum_ , look at you. Disgusting,” Dorian sniffs. Mercurial as he is, though, he immediately reaches back for Bull and pulls him closer by his harness. “Please tell me that you intend to head straight for the lake. I’ve been told the trucks aren’t leaving for a few hours.”

“Actually, me and some of the boys thought we could head into the village for a round. Grab a _warm_ bath while we’re at it. It’s starting to get a bit nipply out here, in case you were too busy missing me to notice.”

Dorian opens his mouth to scoff, but the sky apparently wants in on that joke. Lightning flashes blindingly overhead, followed almost immediately by a roar of thunder. 

“Ooor…,” Bull says, squinting up at the heavy clouds above, “...it could just rain and save me some time!”

 

* * *

 

It does rain. It rains buckets, actually. It takes longer than it should for Bull, Dorian, and a two others to trudge into town. 

Dorian feels every inch the drowned cat as he hunches over a basin tucked away in a tiny washroom in the inn’s tavern. The fledgling mustache he’s so proud of is matted to his face. If his magic weren’t quite as, well, _explosive_ , he’d try to dry himself. As it is, he runs a towel over his face and hair, and he does what he can to make himself presentable again.

A wasted effort in the long run, seeing as it’s still raining and there are more surprises to come, but Dorian doesn’t know that. Once his reflection in the broken mirror doesn’t make him wince, he squares his shoulders and heads back out into the tavern.

It’s immediately obvious that something has happened. The entire clientele of the tavern is on its feet. Dorian hears the screech of wood against wood, before the more subtle sounds of fist against flesh. Bull shouts something angrily and there’s a flash of his horns over the heads of the crowd. 

_Honestly_ , Dorian thinks. He was only gone for five minutes.

Still, he doesn’t bother telling himself he isn’t worried for Bull. He does chastise himself for leaving his staff with the rest of his things, though. So much for not drawing attention to himself. 

Dorian pushes through the crowd until he reaches the edge of the fight, where their pair of Midway friends stand off against three mercenary types. The trio’s armor screams ‘Tevinter’, but Dorian doesn’t let that stop him from grabbing two of the men by their shoulders and zapping them with all the current he can muster.

His targets tense up from top to bottom and collapse into a twitching pile for a moment. It’s long enough for the third to be handled by his companions and for Dorian to get a better look at what’s going on.

Nearby, Bull grapples with a fifth attacker, who keeps swinging his flail at a ruddy-haired teenager. The last soldier Dorian can see stomps closer, intent on helping his ally with the hulking Qunari, no doubt.

There aren’t a lot of choices here. Dorian’s magic isn’t meant for enclosed spaces and he hasn’t had enough training to avoid friendly fire. Frankly, he hasn’t had enough training period. He could just use his fists - he’s done it before - but then he’d have to pick one target. Instead, he shoves his arms out and focuses on the two soldiers closest to Bull. 

Spirits of Fear sweep out from everywhere and nowhere at once. They wail their way through Dorian’s targets and, unfortunately, a number of people nearby, including Bull and a half dozen patrons. The patrons erupt into screams, causing more chaos as they flee. But only one of the soldiers, the spare, breaks away with them. The larger one seems spurred on by his fear. While Bull looks distracted, madness in his eyes, the soldier goes for the terrified teenager, lifting his flail into the air.

Just like that, Bull regains himself enough to leap in way of that downward swing.

One wrecked word rips from Dorian’s throat. Just one panicked “No!”

Later, Dorian will try to describe what happened next and do a piss poor job of it. He’ll remember one of the men he shocked crashing him to the floor and the collective gasp of a dozen people as the flail cut through the air.

He’ll remember every gory detail of how Bull loses his eye protecting a scrappy Soporati on the run, at least everything he could see, but describing it? No. He’ll focus on telling the curious that Bull’s roar shook the rafters and struck fear into his attacker better than a spell ever could have. He’ll talk about how his lover shook the soldier off like a clump of dirt and then beat that man into a bloody stain with his bare hands, all with part of his face in ruin. He’ll even exaggerate how Bull tore Dorian’s attacker off his back and flung him across the room.

What he won’t tell them is that Bull’s one good eye rolled up into his head and he collapsed in an unconscious heap. Dorian won’t mention that he helped run off the last of the soldiers with tears welling in his own eyes either.

Let the nosy bastards fill in the blanks for themselves.

 

* * *

 

The healer’s cottage could use a bigger fireplace. And less tacky curtains. But the man is talented, so Dorian’s cold feet can forgive him. And at least he’s dry as he sits next to the cot, stroking a hand over Bull’s forearm in his lap. 

Bull should be awake already, but he stubbornly keeps right on snoring. A thick bandage wraps around half of his face. It makes Dorian wince to look at it, but the healer assures him the pain won’t be crippling with the right treatment. 

He thinks about asking more questions, anyway. He’s already asked three times if this extended nap is a concern, though, and he’s quite sure the elf will not take kindly to any more badgering. 

Still, he shifts in his chair to look for him until Bull’s deep groan snaps his attention back to the cot.

“Easy, you reckless fool. Lie still,” Dorian orders, leaning forward to press a hand to Bull’s shoulder.

Bull squints his eye open. He takes a few seconds to speak, likely cataloguing everything he can see and feel, then he reaches for the bandage on his face.

“Don’t. Bull…”

“Lost it, didn’t I? Felt it squish like a grape.”

Grimacing at the description, Dorian moves Bull’s hand away from his eye. “I...yes. Maker, Bull. I am so sorry. This is all my fault.” 

“What? How’d you come to that dumb conclusion?”

“If I hadn’t cast Horror--”

“Let me stop you right there,” Bull says. “You were trying to stop them from double-teaming me, and you did.”

Bull’s arm twists in his lap. linking his fingers through Dorian’s with effort.

“I could’ve...I should’ve…” Dorian shoves his free hand through his messy hair. 

“You should’ve what? Thrown yourself in the middle of the mess I started? Gotten yourself killed? You’re no soldier, kadan. You did what you could.” Squeezing Dorian’s hand, Bull nods towards the front door. “Is the kid alright?”

Dorian huffs and rolls his eyes. “Yes, yes. He’s fine. Baffled, naturally. He asked me if all of your oars were in the water.”

“Heh. What did you say?” 

“I said I’m convinced you’ve been paddling with your horns for years.”

Rumbling laughter, Bull tugs at Dorian’s hand. “Come here.”

“What? No! I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Then don’t sit on my face. Come here, Dorian. _Please_.”

Well, that’s hardly fair. Dorian’s been resisting the urge to climb into the cot for hours as it is, now Bull’s using politeness against him. He does as he’s asked, but with a huff for principle’s sake. Admittedly, it is an unspeakable comfort to stretch out on top of Bull, cheek to chest. Bull weakly loops one arm over him and cards fingers through his hair with the other.

“Did you change your mind about going back?” Bull asks.

“...No.”

“You sure?”

“If I leave, you’ll get yourself killed within a week and I don’t need that on my conscience,” Dorian sighs. Thankfully, Bull seems to see right through him and he smiles against the crown of Dorian’s head. Bolstered by that, Dorian lets himself be lulled by Bull’s steady heartbeat under his ear.

“Someone _should_ keep an _eye_ on you, after all.”

For just a second, there’s nothing but silence, and Dorian’s afraid gallows humor was a huge mistake. But then Bull’s chest inflates and he barks out an obnoxious laugh.

“I hope you realize what you’ve started,” Bull grins.

“Hmph. Please. Like you wouldn’t have gotten to the puns sooner or later.”

The door opens a crack, and in peeks the teenager from the tavern.

“I’m...sorry to interrupt, but I assumed from the laughter that the big guy was awake. I can come back if you like.”

“Bah, get in here and introduce yourself,” Bull demands, pulling his hand out of Dorian’s hair to wave the boy inside. Strangely, Dorian didn’t feel inclined to move. His conversation with the Soporati had been fairly brief and mildly tense, but Dorian had gotten the impression he had nothing to worry about as far as gossip getting back to Tevinter. Kind recognizes kind, after all. This runaway isn’t in any more of a hurry to return to Tevinter than he is.

The teenager crosses to stand near the cot and nods his chin sharply. “Cremisius Aclassi. I just--I wanted to thank you. You didn’t need to step in, and frankly, I think you’re a damned fool for doing it, but I appreciate it nonetheless.”

Dorian snorts, eyes lifting to Bull’s face to see his reaction to such an introduction. Of course, Bull only grins wide.

“You’re a soldier.”

“I...I was, yes,” the kid admits.

“Then you understand that sometimes the right thing isn’t always the _smart_ thing.”

Cremisius lifts his eyebrows, looks to Dorian, looks back to Bull. He looks especially young, in that moment. And quietly moved. “You really are an odd one, aren’t you?”

“Ugh, you have no idea,” Dorian mutters.

Bull laughs and nudges Dorian until they both shift to sitting next to each other on the cot. Dorian isn’t forced to stop him from standing too quickly, thank the Maker. Bull just looks up and points at the kid.

“You need a job?”

“Do I… _what_?”

“Look, kid. I got pull with South Thedas Midway and you look like you could use a place to rest your head for a bit. You’ll have to come along to Orlais, but something tells me that won’t be an issue seeing as you can’t stay here.” When he slowly gets to his feet, Bull sways, and Dorian leaps up to steady him with both hands. Bull spends a few seconds orientating himself, looking around the room with his one eye, then he takes a few careful steps towards Cremisius. 

It strikes something deep within Dorian’s chest when he realizes his powerful lover is relearning how to walk without depth perception. And doing it so quietly, it’s hardly noticeable. What doesn’t surprise Dorian is Bull’s refusal to be anything but the force of nature he has always been.

“Are you in or not?” Bull grunts. 

Cremisius crosses his arms and frowns up at Bull’s face. If Dorian hadn’t been looking for it, he might have missed the remorse that passes over the teenager’s suspicious face. He might even have imagined it, it’s gone so quick. Eventually, Cremisius drops his arms and shrugs.

“Yeah, sure. Why not?”

Bull beams down at him. “Good! Welcome to the troupe, Krem.”

“It’s Cremisius.”

“That’s what I said. _Krem_. Now do me a favor and find us a ride into the valley, will you? And cross your fingers the trucks didn’t leave without us.”

Krem frowns, but then does as he’s told. It’s probably a relief to have someone make his choices for him for a bit. But then, Dorian could be projecting on that one.

Lifting Bull’s arm to slip up under it, Dorian pokes him in the belly. “Please tell me you aren’t in the habit of collecting every wayward Tevinter you encounter.”

Bull smirks down at him with something dangerously fond in his eye. “Nah,” he says, slowly lowering his mouth towards Dorian’s. “Only the sassy ones who let me.”


End file.
